The Secret to Seduction (38 page)

Perhaps she’d gone home to La Montagne. He allowed his mind to toy with the thought, to see if it felt possible, to see if it would turn into hope. He didn’t really believe it. Like Geoffrey said: Sabrina usually had a plan.

“She’s a country girl, Rhys.”

His cousin was trying to tell him that Sabrina was resourceful. It was perhaps the most useful thing Geoffrey had ever said. Rhys knew there was sense in it, and something in him eased just a very little.

“Did your father tell you?”

Geoffrey knew what Rhys meant. “Yes.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes.”

“
Why?
” Rhys made a frustrated gesture. Geoffrey flinched, which pleased Rhys. “Why in God’s name did you need to know? Why couldn’t you just let it
be
?”

“It was wrong, Rhys. What you did.”

Imagine
Geoffrey
sounding righteous.

“Of course it was bloody
wrong.
Your father knew it, I knew it. We did what we needed to do. And it kept you fed, didn’t it? And clothed. And it sent you to school. But you squandered it. Your father, whatever he’s like now, all but sold his soul for you. And you
bloody squandered it.
”

Geoffrey’s narrow, handsome face was still and pale. He was too thin, Rhys noticed.

“You’ve never taken me seriously,” Geoffrey said, sounding nearly petulant.

“For God’s sake, why should I?” Rhy said this almost reasonably.

Geoffrey went silent again. “You’re such a smug bastard, Rhys.”

“Is that what sort of bastard I am, Geoffrey? I’ve always wondered.”

Geoffrey gave a short, faint laugh. “You don’t see it, do you? I’m not
you,
Rhys. I’m me. But you expect everyone to be a bloody…rock. A bloody hero. I haven’t your fortitude. I simply don’t. You with your contempt, and . . .” Geoffrey’s voice broke. “I’m human. And maybe I’m weak, and maybe I’m foolish, but I’m not entirely bad, and yet you…even though you did this
thing
so many years ago, you stand in judgment of me.”

“You’re flat dangerous, Geoffrey. I’ve never before encountered a curate with no soul.”

This made Geoffrey angry; his eyes went hard. And maybe it hadn’t been entirely fair, but Rhys was in no mood to be fair.

“You’ve always had everything you’ve wanted. Everything was just roses for you yet again, wasn’t it, Rhys? And yet you didn’t even want her to begin with.”

Rhys slowly turned to look at Geoffrey. Then shook his head once, roughly, in pure incredulity. The truth of it cut deep.

“You’ve no idea, do you?” he said softly.

Geoffrey was fully angry now. “You wouldn’t even have known her if not for me. And she was besotted with you. She was so damn…
happy.
” Geoffrey said it helplessly. He made it sound like an affront.

“Not anymore. Congratulations, you’ve accomplished at least one thing you set out to do in your life. And you punished the wrong person.”

Geoffrey inhaled and pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table, sat down. Overcome perhaps. “I need money.” His voice was faint.

“For your
mission.
” Rhys snarled the word ironically.

“No. Honestly, Rhys. I’m in . . .” Geoffrey faltered. “I swear it to you. I’m in trouble. Serious trouble this time.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Rhys said grimly. “This time, get yourself out of it.”

“I’m your own blood, Rhys.” Geoffrey was pleading now. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you? And don’t forget, I happen to know what you did for your own blood seventeen years ago.”

Rhys’s head snapped toward him. “I’ll see your blood if I don’t find her, Geoffrey.”

“Rhys, I swear to God, if you don’t . . .”

“If I don’t
what
?”

Geoffrey stared, defiance in his pale face. “You
do
know what your secret is worth, don’t you? And you do know who is on trial now in London, don’t you?”

There was a silence.

“There’s no proof,” Rhys said flatly. Although he could never, ever be certain of this.

Geoffrey was silent, eyes blazing. All the fine qualities of the Gillrays were muted in Geoffrey, all the less fine, that temper, that pride, that sense of entitlement, the excess, had somehow come to the fore, and were all that could contain him. None of it balanced by spine or integrity or true decency. He was amorphous, Geoffrey was. And this, Rhys realized, did make him dangerous.

“Geoffrey—if you destroy the family name—realize you also destroy your every chance at income, because you’ll never be able to live on credit again. Every chance at ever making a name for yourself. Any chance of pride for your heirs. The name
means
something.”

“What if I said I didn’t care?” Geoffrey was wild with desperation. “And I swear to God, Rhys, if you don’t give me money now . . .”

Rhys stepped closer to his cousin. “Are you threatening me?” He said it almost curiously. He sounded nearly amused.

Geoffrey swallowed hard. “Eight thousand pounds.” The words were almost a whisper. “I swear I need it.”

“I don’t
have
that kind of money to just hand you, Geoffrey, even if I thought I might. Dear God. It would take a very long time to free it.”

“But they’re
threatening
me…they’ve hurt me before . . .”

“Who?” The word was a snarl. “Who’s threatening you?”

Geoffrey was silent. He lowered his face into his hands. “I swear, Rhys…I’ll do it. I’ll spread the word. I’ll tell the secret. Because they’re going to kill me, Rhys. My creditors.”

Rhys was silent. He realized, finally, he just didn’t care. The entire purpose of his life had been to restore the Rawden fortune and name, and now he just didn’t care.

“If I don’t find Sabrina, Geoffrey…you’ll be fortunate if they reach you before I do.”

Rhys said it almost calmly.

And then he was gone.

Sabrina could scarcely remember the trip. The mad gallop to the coaching inn was a blur now, and there she’d left her horse and requested—demanded—to be taken immediately to the next coaching inn, two towns over, and the inn owner had immediately scrambled to find a carriage to do it in.

Clever of her, she thought. She’d done it in order to stay one step ahead of Rhys, who was just as clever, and would find her soon enough. Still, no sense in making it any easier for him than it needed to be.

Being a countess meant that no one questioned the absence of trunks, or even the absence of a maid: her clothes spoke for her, as did her manners; she merely imitated Rhys, after all, his pride and presence, and her contained anger made her all the more convincing.

Everything—the rooms at the inn, the food she didn’t eat, the coach fare—went on the Earl of Rawden’s account.

And finally, a day and a half later, she was in London, nearly blind and feeling weightless from fatigue and knowing distantly she was very likely starving but not truly feeling it. She stared up at the town house on Grosvenor Square. She’d merely issued the direction: “Lady Grantham, please”—and the driver had known.

Even the hackney driver knew where her sister lived, while Sabrina might not ever have known her at all.

She used what felt like the last of her strength to raise the knocker and let it fall.

Moments later, a somber, gray-faced man opened the door.

“Lady Grantham, please.” Her voice was shredded from fatigue.

“May I tell her who is—”

But there she was, suddenly. A woman had come to the door, and her face blurred before Sabrina’s eyes, blending with her memories of long ago, and suddenly Sabrina couldn’t tell one from the other. Was she dreaming or awake? Faintly, through her fury, she knew completion and happiness…and exhaustion.

And as she’d accomplished her mission, she said one thing to the woman: “I’m Sabrina.”

The panic in the woman’s expression puzzled her.

“Kit!” the woman shouted, inexplicably.

Sabrina heard even this as if through cotton batting.

And it was the last word she heard before she toppled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

S
ABRINA DIDN’T KNOW she’d been asleep until she opened her eyes to a room softly lit. Impressions seeped in with her slow-dawning awareness: the bed beneath her was soft, the fire low but strong. She turned her head, and discovered a luxuriously plump pillow supporting it, shifting with her as she moved.

“How did I…,” she said, almost to herself.

“My husband brought you up.” A gentle voice. Concerned. Strange, yet somehow peculiarly, thrillingly familiar. Sabrina turned to the source of it.

She might as well have turned to stare into a mirror. She stared for a long, hungry moment at this woman who must be her sister.

“Don’t let him in,” were her first words. She’d blurted them. Rude, but somehow it was the first thing her tired mind reached for.

“?‘Him’?” said the living, breathing mirror, sounding a bit startled.

But now, fully awake, fully aware, Sabrina couldn’t answer. She seemed capable only of staring and staring at the woman.

“Rawden,” she finally replied. She could barely get the word out for drinking in her sister.
Her own flesh and blood.
She took in a deep breath, as if she needed extra air to accommodate the magnitude of what she’d done, and who this was.

Susannah returned her regard with the same avid fascination.

And then all at once something like comprehension dawned all over her face.

“
You’re
the woman who married The Libertine? The Earl of Rawden? The one he’s reportedly besotted with?” She sounded absolutely delighted. “Oh,
well
done.”

Sabrina blinked.
Besotted?
How on earth would her sister have heard such a thing?

“That’s the rumor, anyhow,” Susannah continued happily. “He hasn’t been seen about the
ton,
and I’ve heard it’s because he’s besotted with his wife, whom no one has ever seen. Now I know for
certain
we’re related. We’ve all managed to make rather extraordinary marriages. For you should
see
Sylvie’s husband. But…are you well? Are you hungry? I was rather worried.”

The only thing in Sabrina’s stomach at the moment was a peculiar blend of misery and joy. Very likely she should eat. Collapsing and not recalling her journey up the stairs in the arms of her sister’s husband was perhaps an indication that she ought to eat.

“Perhaps some soup.” She was practical, after all. She didn’t intend to pine away. “I was merely weary and hungry. I didn’t faint.”

“No. You rather fell asleep.” Susannah sounded half amused. “Dropped like a felled tree right there in the entrance. Kit caught you just in time.”

“Kit—?” The word Susannah had shouted just before.

“My husband. Viscount Grantham. I could see you were about to fall, so I called for him.”

“I came straight from La Montagne, you see,” Sabrina said. “Without stopping.”

“Or sleeping or eating,” her sister guessed. “Sylvie came from France in much the same way.”

From France? It was almost too much to take in right now.

“Don’t let him in,” Sabrina remembered to say, as it seemed urgent. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Is it a quarrel?” Susannah ventured.

“Not precisely.”

Susannah waited for clarification. Sabrina said nothing.

“He hasn’t tried to hurt you?” Susannah said with quick ferocity. “Because Kit will—”

“No,” Sabrina said quickly. It was true: he hadn’t
tried
to hurt her. He simply had hurt her.
And
her sisters. Irrevocably. “He isn’t…he isn’t like that.” She decided to test sisterly loyalty. “My husband turned you away from our home. I never knew you’d come to see me.”

A stunned silence.

“
Why?
” Susannah demanded. Fierce. Sabrina studied her, strangely pleased with the vehemence. Susannah had longed to find her, too.

“It is between my husband and me,” she said firmly. Whatever Rhys had done, she wasn’t yet prepared to destroy him by revealing his secret. Now that she had her sisters, she would think about what shape her life would take without him.

“You cannot tell me, or
will
not tell me?” Susannah wondered shrewdly.

Ah, this sounded rather sisterly. Sabrina almost smiled; it was peculiarly exhilarating, this thought. And the newness of this helped offset the loss of her beautiful, false life with Rhys.

“Will not,” she said, gently but emphatically.

Susannah smiled a little at that. Then shook her head slowly, to and fro, wonderingly. As though, for some reason, Sabrina had confirmed something for her.

It was quiet now.

“I’m your sister Susannah,” Susannah said finally. As though the words were the final ones in a ceremony, a marriage or coronation or christening. The words that made it real and true.

Sabrina reached out her hand, and Susannah took it, held it tightly. Susannah’s hand was so smooth and soft. The hands of a lady, for certain, unlike her own, yet the shape of them, long and slender, was familiar. They looked like hers.
My sister.